alma

…over a quarter of my sentences begin with ellipsesthe objective’s to sigh. the intent it carries? illicitmalicious design leaves my lips, but ends so benignthere ain’t a problem when it rains- you couldn’t tell that i criedit becomes complicated to explain- when it wells in my eyehe pretends that he’s not, even though he bottles up the painlocks it in a cage, then polishes his crooked crownused to looking down, when things aren’t looking upone day life’ll flash before my eyes;not sure if that flash is good enoughbeen given a gift to scribe every moment as happenedwith more details. more girth, more exposure, and factorsmere fractions of seconds, become volume seriesweeks of dejection becomes your lifes communal theoryconsummate. times snapped. here’s a problem that i hadwhat are words from wise men, when philosophers die sadto my own respite, id serve up a bourbon with spritewords became blurry and slurred over nightfriends displayed worry. what’s that term to describe?oh right, nowcircle of life. how funny. it hurts when i bite downi’d go in my journal and write thousands of wordy delightsto make sense of what happened, to an essay tore up outta spiteinherited words. characters without a characters worthhow embarrassing to have to establish, what to others- barely needs wordsparameters towards my dignity gave an insatiable thirstlessons invaluably learned through every varying turnmaneuver like van gogh’s jupiter through mercurial etchingto live frozen as a painter- in the worlds most peculiar settingsto see beauty in carnage, objectify tragedy as a series of conceptsrather than unfurling tempers flaring from a deity’s contexti hope my eulogy is written in blood. life romanticizes the beastcomputerize all of my content. analyzing completemolecules in your garden, fantasize mon cheri.sift through the nucleus’ car-wreck. make a wishI’m asleep